Just when I thought I was getting better, I found myself back here again; retreating to the same corner, fingers hovering over the keyboard, spilling my thoughts onto the screen like a hard habit to break. It’s almost cruel how healing deceives me, appearing like a distant mirage shimmering in the heat of my hope, only to dissolve into nothing the moment I reach for it.

I keep telling myself that time is supposed to mend what’s broken, that each passing day is meant to dull the sharp edges of loss. But what if time is nothing more than a trickster, stretching out the pain into something quieter but never truly taking it away? What if I am not healing at all, just growing accustomed to the weight of something I’ll never be free from?

Tonight, that weight feels unbearable. It sits heavy on my chest, pressing into my lungs, making every breath feel like a task. The silence of my room amplifies everything; my thoughts, my loneliness, my longing. It wraps around me like a suffocating fog, thick and unmoving.

I try to chase it away with music, filling the air with melodies that once felt like comfort, but tonight, even the lyrics sound hollow. I turn on the television, hoping for a distraction, but the voices blur into nothingness, drowned out by the memories that refuse to loosen their grip.

I miss them. I miss what was. I miss the person I used to be before all of this. Before grief redefined me, before sadness became a companion I never invited in. And admitting that, truly admitting it, feels terrifying. Because what if this is forever? What if no matter how much time passes, I am destined to carry this hollow ache in my chest, learning only how to disguise it better?

I wish I could tell someone how much it still hurts. But pain is a language that people shy away from. I see it in their eyes, the hesitation, the quiet discomfort when my sadness lingers longer than they expected it to. They want the version of me that is “okay,” the one who can smile easily, who can say “I’m doing better” without it feeling like a lie. And so I give them what they want. I offer them the mask, the rehearsed lines, the illusion of healing. Because it’s easier that way. Because no one truly wants to sit in the depths of grief with you.

So I write it here instead. I pour the rawest parts of myself onto this page, letting sorrow seep into the spaces between my words. Here, in the quiet company of my own thoughts, I don’t have to pretend.

I don’t have to be strong.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s the only comfort I have left.